


The Forest Holds no Truths

by buttcatcher



Series: Drogon ain't got nothin on Jaskier [6]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, cirilla is the pie filling in this one, geralt is trying his best to be more open about things, jaskier has a lot of feelings, then one more oneshot in the series and then a bonus smut one, this is gonna have 2 chapters, tw for battles and blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:41:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24546328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttcatcher/pseuds/buttcatcher
Summary: The deer tastes better than anything Jaskier has ever had once Yennefer has left their presence.Or at least that’s what Jaskier thinks as he tears into his portion of meat Geralt had so thoughtfully skinned and roasted for him, Cirilla having had her fill first before either of the men.Yennefer’s arrival and departure left them with much to think about.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Drogon ain't got nothin on Jaskier [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1758499
Comments: 165
Kudos: 1130





	1. Blood and Lies

**Author's Note:**

> This is gonna be 2 chapters long. I have it all typed out but it's a long one so I figured it would be easier to split into two chapters. 
> 
> P.S The italic words beside the words spoken in Elder are the translations. Hope it's not too confusing.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

The deer tastes better than anything Jaskier has ever had once Yennefer has left their presence.

Or at least that’s what Jaskier thinks as he tears into his portion of meat Geralt had so thoughtfully skinned and roasted for him, Cirilla having had her fill first before either of the men. 

Yennefer’s arrival and departure left them with much to think about.

Aretuza most certainly was not the right choice. A fortress crawling with mages is one thing, but Jaskier has no doubt there are traitors dwelling in its halls. Dragon or not, he knows now is not the time for Cirilla to be surrounded by members of the Brotherhood and possible spies with questionable loyalties. At least witchers from the School of the Wolf are as loyal as the beasts they had taken as their namesake. 

The same could not be said about the fickle whims of sorceresses. 

Speaking of sorceresses… “She’s just as beautiful as ever, huh?” Jaskier nudges Geralt with his elbow in a friendly jab, surprisingly finding himself not upset when the witcher grunts in affirmation because the expression tugging his lips downward looks more resigned than Jaskier has ever seen.

Like agreeing wasn’t something he was happy about. 

He can’t really blame the white haired man. Anyone with a functioning pair of eyes could see her beauty. Hell, if he weren’t so besotted with Geralt and didn’t have a sense of morality, he might have pursued her.

The lack of respect for privacy and general morals would become a problem though.

“She is beautiful.” Geralt agrees as he grinds the bone of the deer leg he’s eating between his sharp teeth, the snap and crack as he chews something Jaskier had gotten used to back when they first began their travels. After all, food is not always available when on the Path. Witcher's digestive systems are much stronger than that of a normal man, and while Jaskier’s own isn't one to laugh at, the truly disgusting things Geralt sometimes ate solely to keep himself going could get a little gross. 

“She is,” Cirilla joins in, handing over her bones for Geralt to munch on without a second thought. “But she seems kind of... “

“Witchy?” Jaskier supplies helpfully.

Cirilla rolls her eyes at him in a way they will definitely have to have a talk about later. “Well, she _is_ a sorceress, but the way she spoke to Geralt didn’t seem right.”

“She has always been that way.” Geralt shrugs off the comments even as his expression turns more pensive.

“She wanted to take me from you,” Cirilla points out as she casts large, sorrowful emerald eyes toward her guardian. “I _just_ managed to find you! I don’t want to part with you for a long time yet.”

The clear unwillingness to be taken from their side brings a subtle smile to Geralt’s face, those lips Jaskier has dreamed of kissing so many times pulling back to show just a hint of sharp canines. “Hmm.”

“Speaking of mad witches and Destiny,” Jaskier says in a huff as he smooths his hands over the rough material of his bedroll, “It is _way_ past the bedtime of young princesses. If you’re not careful, you might have a crazy witch on your arse tomorrow morning except this one will have white hair and an unfortunately limited vocabulary.” He stares Geralt square in the eye as he says this, daring the witcher to deny how grumpy he gets when his meditation is postponed.

For a moment Cirilla looks as though she wants to argue but quickly thinks better of it as her mouth stretches around a large yawn. Tears gather at the corner of her eyes from the sheer force of it. Geralt isn’t far behind her in the exhaustion department and at once, Jaskier decides the both of them need rest more than himself.

“I’ll take the first watch.” Jaskier offers as Cirilla gets herself comfortable in her own bedroll that lies between the two men, curled up into a ball to warm up. Geralt opens his mouth to argue but the bard cuts him off with a single wagging finger. “No no no, you don't get to argue with me about this one. You look like you’re barely keeping your eyes open and I am fine to stay up a while longer.” He rifles through his pack turned pillow and pulls out a worn songbook to wiggle in front of Geralt’s face.

Geralt doesn’t look convinced from where he sits on the other side of Cirilla, the draw of his eyebrows creating a crease on his forehead that Jaskier has come to associate with the sound of his own voice. Which, rude. “You can’t see in the dark. How are you going to write?”

“I am a man of many talents.”

“Do your talents include writing songs that contain actual truth?”

“It’s called artistic license, dear.” Jaskier sniffs.

The witcher turns his nose to the air and pulls in a few long huffs through his nostrils before humming and tossing a spare blanket at Jaskier who, in true form, fails to catch it and allows it to smack him in the face. “There isn’t anything within a ten kilometer radius that can harm us,” Geralt concludes. “You should sleep as well.”

Well. Jaskier has never been one to argue with an opportunity to get extra beauty sleep, though he does take a moment to listen to the sounds of the nightlife surrounding them to double check just in case. Crickets and other insects create a soothing background noise as bats come out of their hiding places and head out into the night to search for food. 

There are no monsters near them.

No stomps or snarls of beasts meet his ears so Jaskier heaves a put upon sigh and acquiesces. The ground under his bedroll is rough and frankly very uncomfortable, but the warmth radiating off of Cirilla from where she’s situated between Geralt and himself is enough to lull him into a sense of peace.

If someone had told him how this day would go when he woke up this morning, Jaskier would have laughed at the absurdity of it all. He hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Yennefer since the whole mountain debacle, so it really wasn’t too far-fetched to assume she would avoid his presence like a plague every chance she got.

It was… odd, definitely, for her to just show up and suddenly pretend to care about Geralt beyond her own interests regarding the man. 

Geralt is not an overly cautious man. Jaskier knows the witcher has been in much more dangerous situations than the one that prompted a visit, so why had Yenefer not deemed those instances important enough to portal herself there to check up on the White Wolf? Even when her and Geralt had… whatever it is their relationship was, he had been the one to stitch up gnarly gashes on the man. He had been the one to sneak out in the middle of the night while Geralt’s body was drugged on Swallow and mending itself to make sure the threat was truly eliminated.

Why had she not shown up any of those times? Why was _today_ so different?

It isn’t like his chaos is much different than hers. At least, not enough for her to sense so much danger from it. It’s just… older, more ancient, tied closer to Old Magic than-

Oh. 

That explains it, then.

Or perhaps she is growing a conscience, however unlikely that may be. Or maybe she decided to put more effort into showing concern for Geralt, though Jaskier doubts that very much. It isn’t common for a person so wrapped up in themselves to notice the hurt of another and try to ease that person’s pain. 

The sound of heavy cloth being dragged against dirt breaks the silence of the night, accompanied by a few huffs of effort as Cirilla tries to subtly move the two men’s bedrolls closer to herself where she lay between them. 

How she expected to move bedrolls with them sleeping atop said bedrolls baffles Jaskier.

“Cold, princess?” Jaskier whispers by her side, amused at the way she jumps at the sound of his voice, obviously having been under the impression she was being sneaky. To a normal human, the fire their camp emits for warmth would be barely enough to make out vague shapes in the darkness, but Jaskier can see every detail just as clearly as he knows Geralt can.

Can see the way Cirilla shivers as a gentle breeze blows through the forest. 

“A little.” Cirilla admits in a quiet tone, large guilty eyes pleading with him to move closer.

And who is he to ignore the plea of a princess?

Jaskier easily scoots his bedroll close enough to hers so the cloth makes one large bedroll. He can see Geralt silently do the same on the other side of the girl, having caught onto the princess’s whims before Jaskier had.

She lays down with a happy sigh as soon as she’s wedged between them both, an arm slung around each of their own as she cuddles them to her sides. A strangled breath Jaskier knows means that Geralt has been caught off guard sounds from somewhere beside Cirilla, but the witcher melts into the contact with an ease Jaskier hadn’t expected. 

Perhaps this child is doing more good for the white haired man than he suspected. 

The Geralt he knew at the beginning of their travels didn’t much care for physical contact outside of battle. Even the hard earned shoulder pats and permission to wash his hair had taken a ton of convincing and maybe a little bit of crying on Jaskier’s part, so the fact he allows such closeness and even seems to _enjoy_ it spreads something akin to pride through Jaskier’s chest.

“Comfortable?” Jaskier whispers to her as she hums in agreement, scooching a bit closer to tuck her head under his chin in a move that melts his heart, each of her breaths tickling his chest hair where it peeks out beneath his partially unbuttoned chemise. Geralt is easy to make out in the dark; dragons have no problem seeing in scarcely lit places, and neither do witchers. 

Said witcher is curled up on his side behind Cirilla, his large form dwarfing even Jaskier, and Jaskier is no small man. When Jaskier had first met Geralt in Posada, the sheer _size_ of the man crammed into that worn down tavern table made him stammer out the first pick up line that came into his head. Even when they met up again in spring each year, the sight of Geralt’s large hands and thighs were truly something to behold. The way the witcher seemed to dwarf him in presence alone despite them being nearly the same height always did funny things to his heart. 

But here, laying out under the stars during a cool autumn night, Jaskier feels more at peace than he has in a while. All thoughts of Yennefer and the bad luck she brings are banished from his mind, the only thing he can focus on being those feline eyes a mere foot away from his own and how they seem to absorb what little light there is and reflect it. Pale lashes blink slowly as Geralt stares at him from over the top of Cirilla’s head, silver strands of hair falling over his shoulder like a waterfall as Jaskier forces himself to remain still and not reach out to tuck those silky strands behind the other’s ear. 

He isn’t sure the touch would be welcomed. Especially not after everything that had happened between them.

A few minutes later, Cirilla releases their arms and wiggles her way down a bit to snuffle sleepily against his chest more closely, leaving Geralt and Jaskier face to face with nothing obstructing their vision.

Blue eyes clash with yellow as they stare at one another, neither willing to break the silence as Cirilla drools against Jaskier’s chest, the cold spot of fabric sticking to his skin acting as a sort of anchor for him. Eventually, as is always the case, Jaskier breaks the silence first and lowers his gaze to pale, soft lips surrounded by stubble. “Can I ask you something?”

A low questioning rumble sounds deep in Geralt’s chest. “Hmm.”

Asking sounded much easier in his head, but Jaskier is already in this deep; he may as well just go for it. “Back when we ran into each other again by the river,” he pauses to lick his suddenly dry lips, “The one with the Djinn. I never asked… what did you wish for, when you used your last one?” 

He has an inkling of what it was, but in light of recent events, Jaskier pushes aside the misery his memories involving the witch bring out in him and demands the truth. A plea for Geralt to give him answers he’s gone so long without. 

A plea to meet him in the middle. To put effort into fixing what had been broken.

“I didn’t use it to bring Valdo Marx an early demise, if that’s what you’re hoping for.” 

Jaskier knows the other man is trying to soften the blow of whatever he is about to reveal, and he truly doesn’t appreciate it because it would be so much easier to just come clean.

But also, fuck Valdo Marx.

Geralt is silent for a moment before eyelids flutter over those catlike irises, and Jaskier can’t tear his eyes away from the sight as the witcher searches for the right words. Like this, bathed in pale moonlight and scouring his mind for the right thing to say, he looks centuries older than he really is. “I didn’t want her to die.” Is the eventual response. “She saved you. I couldn’t let her die.”

Jaskier releases a breath before shifting so he can rest his arm beneath his head, mirroring the position Geralt is in, though his biceps aren’t nearly as comfortable looking as the other man’s. “That’s not what I asked.”

“I know. I’m… trying,” Geralt insists, clearly frustrated with his difficulty in stringing together meaningful words. They have always been a problem for him whereas prose comes easy as breathing to Jaskier.

And, like he has always done, Jaskier gives him the time and space to find the right ones. 

“Yennefer is… power hungry. She’s not satisfied with anything she has, so she’s always wanting more. I… back then, if I hadn’t made the wish I did, both her and I would have died.” Geralt stresses as he attempts damage control before any damage has been done.

Jaskier simply hums in response. They both know what he thinks of the witch.

But that still doesn’t answer his question.

“Geralt-”

“I wished to bind our fates together. If she was to die, the only thing I could do to save her was tie her to myself.”

And just like that, the truth is out in the open and Jaskier feels like throwing up.

Somehow it’s both worse and not as bad as he imagined. What Geralt is saying implies that if this mad witch dies on her self appointed crusade for power, so will the witcher, and the both of them know which is the more likely scenario. Jaskier would not weep for Yennefer were she to meet an early demise, though he would be saddened, in a way. Beings with a drive as strong as hers are rare and though he hates what she’s done to their lives, he can’t deny she’s strong in her own right.

After all, who has the guts to stand up to both a witcher of legend and a dragon who has lived through the Conjunction of the Spheres without an ounce of fear?

But if the same untimely demise were to meet Geralt, however…

Jaskier would not cope well, to say the least. 

“Oh.” Jaskier closes his eyes for a brief moment to pull himself together. It is said in nothing short of a whisper, a broken realization that no matter what he does, the two of them are bound together by something other than Destiny. 

A Destiny that does not involve Jaskier.

Why had he not tried harder to stop Geralt from going into that crumbling house? His strength is equally matched with the witcher’s in his human form, perhaps even more so. So why had he allowed Destiny to alter their lives when he had a chance to stop it before the mess even began?

“Jaskier…” Geralt begins, yellow eyes pleading with Jaskier to look at the witcher, something the bard can't bring himself to do even as he feels their weight burning a hole in his face.

“Please don’t,” he begs, struggling to focus on the deep breaths Cirilla takes against him as she sleeps, warm and safe against his chest with Geralt at her back. “At least tell me you know how foolish that wish is.”

“It wasn’t a situation I could have changed-”

“It was.” Jaskier denies, refusing to break eye contact with Geralt. “Had you listened to me, left the witch to her inevitable demise like I advised, our lives would be much different.”

Geralt stares at him in thinly veiled astonishment, the judgement Jaskier sees in those eyes burning his insides with a vortex of emotions. “You truly would have rather I left her to die?”

That, Jaskier can’t deny. If he had known how Destiny would play with their lives like this... perhaps this all could have turned out differently. “I know I say a lot of flowery words, Geralt, but I do not say things I don’t mean. I do not lie. Her death would have been a merciful one. I have seen you put monsters and other such beings out of their misery when there was no chance to save them. Leaving that place would have been a mercy.”

Geralt looks stricken. “You really wished death upon her?”

This conversation is going nowhere at an alarming speed, though Jaskier can appreciate the effort Geralt is putting into answering him instead of closing himself off and stomping into the woods to let his frustrations out on whatever unfortunate beast he comes across. “Tell me, dear heart, what has tying your life to a power hungry sorceress done for either of you?” It’s a low blow but he can’t stop once he’s started, desperate for the witcher to see what galavanting with a sorceress as power hungry as Yennefer is doing to them both. “She’s unhappy, you’re unhappy, and I’m here just picking up the pieces every time you two run into each other.”

Why couldn’t Geralt have tied himself to Jaskier? Dragons are infinitely harder to kill than a sorceress; they could have lived side by side for _centuries._

Perhaps this is what Borch meant when he said to not dwell on what could have been. Keeping his head up and looking forward to what will be doesn’t invoke the same emotions as the other. Had Villentretenmerth essentially told him to mourn his lost chance by looking toward a future where Geralt and Yennefer come to terms with one another and get to play happy families?

Oh, words were definitely going to be had with Borch when they run into each other again.

Geralt doesn’t refute the claim that they’re both unhappy with each other. In fact, he looks almost guilty. “Yennefer is a safe choice.”

Jaskier waits for more explanation. When none comes, he feels a whisper of fury and bewilderment simmer beneath soft, forgiving skin that houses his true form. “How so?”

Geralt drops his eyes to rest on the crown of moonlight colored hair splayed over narrow shoulders, that piercing gaze softening into something sad as he watches Cirilla sleep. “She’s not human. She’s… she can survive a lot of things and live considerably longer than even myself. I don’t have to be cautious with my strength around her, nor her with me. She’s… the most suited person to the life of a witcher I’ve come across in all my years of living this lifestyle.”

Hearing Geralt’s reasoning makes Jaskier’s heart hurt for more than one reason. That Geralt thinks his only chance for love lies in the hands of someone so profoundly greedy, someone so twisted by life, cuts deeper than the words themselves.

The fact he doesn’t see Jaskier in front of him, a powerful being who loves the famed Geralt the White Wolf just as much as Geralt the man, stings like saltwater on an open wound.

Never mind the fact he has been following the witcher for the past _two decades_ without a single word of complaint. Never mind the nights he stayed up to watch over Geralt after a bad fight, keeping vigil over his injured form as the other man healed.

The look Jaskier gives Geralt is full of sorrow, tears threatening to spill from tired eyes as he offers the witcher a wobbly smile he doesn’t actually feel. “Love, if your criteria for a life partner is simply ‘immortal with a mind absolutely bereft of marbles,’ then you truly don’t know your own worth.”

This hurt so much more than Jaskier anticipated. Geralt being open and honest with him is what he had asked for, _begged_ for, but never in his wildest dreams did he think this would cut him so deeply.

At least Geralt was giving him his wish.

The uncomfortable silence stretches on for a few moments before Geralt, surprisingly, is the one to break it this time. “...Thank you.”

Jaskier closes his eyes against a wave of tears that threaten to break free at that. It feels like so long ago when the witcher had last thanked him for something, though at that time he had been a dragon half the size of Crow’s Perch. 

When was the last time Geralt had thanked Jaskier the bard?

The only instance he can recall is a time when Geralt had suffered two broken legs and a handful of cracked ribs. With her owner down for the count, Jaskier had taken it upon himself to remove Roach’s tack and pamper her with a long brush down and treats as a thank you for carrying Geralt’s dead weight from the forest of kikimores. Hell, after he had coaxed a few gulps of Swallow down the injured man’s throat, the troubadour went back out and braided Roach’s mane as a way to keep his hands busy lest he aggravate the healing process with his inability to sit still.

Geralt hadn’t appreciated the braids when he was well enough to walk, but he still wheezed his thanks when Roach headbutted his chest and jostled his healing ribs.

The memory is bittersweet.

“Can I ask you a question?” The deep voice shocks Jaskier as he opens his eyes to see Geralt turning his head to look at the sky, the sparse moonlight casting his profile in such a beautiful light that had Jaskier decided to pursue a career as an artist, he would have immortalized this moment on as big a canvas as money could buy.

But he’s a bard, and bards words are their livelihood. 

“Of course.” He breathes, more intrigued about what Geralt could possibly be wanting to ask about than any consequence that can come from it. Very rarely has the other man ever asked anything of Jaskier aside from gruff orders to stay put and not get in the way.

What else could go wrong?

Geralt starts and stops forming words a couple times before he shifts completely to lie on his back, hands clasped over his chest as he reclines against his bedroll. It’s probably easier for him to ask direct questions when he doesn’t have to look the person he’s asking in the eye. “When we met again, by the river. You mentioned a Countess.”

Ah. Jaskier suspected this might come up eventually.

Just hadn’t thought it would be so soon. Geralt usually takes a good few years to truly digest things like this.

“The Countess de Stael.” The name doesn’t bring with it the misery and frustration it had back then. The Countess was stunning, beautiful in the same way Yennefer is terrifying, but she hadn’t been anything special.

She was nothing more than a distraction. Every song he wrote about her, every dinner party he played at, all of it was to forget the wolf who once confided in Jaskier that he needs no one, wants no one. 

What was he supposed to do at that point? They had parted ways amicably that fall, each going their own way on their respective paths: one headed to Kaer Morhen to wait out the snow and one desperate to find a distraction so he wouldn’t tear off after the witcher.

Geralt hums in confirmation, though he looks oddly uncomfortable.

“I was invited to stay at her family's mansion for the winter and part of the spring. It was a mutually beneficial setup: I got a free room and meals if I played at her family’s parties, and she in turn got to have her parents off her back about finding a prospective husband. You see, the Countess wasn’t in the market for sausages; she much preferred the pantries.”

It takes Geralt a beat to understand what he’s implying, and when he does, a pleasantly surprised snort leaves him and his body relaxes. “Can’t believe you stayed there for an entire winter without making any trouble.”

A grin stretches his lips before Jaskier can think to tone it down. Hearing Geralt laugh in his own brutish way never failed to fill his stomach with butterflies. “Now who said anything about not making trouble?” 

Geralt’s eyes roll in a show of fond exasperation. “Jaskier...”

“Oh, don’t get your smallclothes in a twist, Geralt. The Stael family’s cooks had the _best_ fancy cheeses; they were simply to die for. The cooks never noticed the few wheels that went missing every couple weeks.”

“Unbelievable.”

“As I said before, I am a man of many talents.”

“Hmm.” 

The sound of leather and linens shuffling as Geralt rolls onto the side of his hip for a moment to pull something out of his belt is the only noise for a few moments. Then, almost like if he moved too quickly the moment would be broken, Geralt holds out a dagger Jaskier never thought he would see again. Trembling hands reach over Cirilla to grasp at the bejeweled hilt of the blade, fingers brushing over thick skinned ones as Jaskier fights the urge to weep.

“Geralt, where did you find this?” He breathes in awe as he turns the blade this way and that, taking note of how well it has been taken care of since the night he threw it to the dirt and demanded Destiny tell him what the fuck she thinks she’s doing with his life. 

The witcher simply offers a soft hum as an answer before he can’t take Jaskier staring at him imploringly and cracks. “Alright, alright, fine. I found it when Cirilla and I were looking for you. It had been kicked off the main path. The moon glinted off the jewel on the hilt. Cirilla was the one to find it.”

“You remembered it.” Jaskier can’t believe what he’s hearing through the rush of giddiness making his hands tremble as he carefully slips it back into the sheath he still keeps on his belt.

Geralt makes an offended noise. “Of course I did. I was the one who bought it for you.”

And well, Jaskier doesn’t quite know what to do with that.

A soft companionable silence evolves naturally between them as Cirilla makes soft noises in her sleep. The late hour and their revealing discussion finally begins to tug on Jaskier’s tired eyes, and before he knows it, he’s whispering a ‘goodnight’ to Geralt and slipping into a calm sleep.

*

Consciousness snags Jaskier from his dreams and throws him back to the world of the living with brutal efficiency. 

For a few disorienting seconds, he can’t place what it was that had woken him up so suddenly. The sky is a soft pink as the sun begins to rise, the trees around them rustling with each gentle breeze rolling through their leaves.

It’s the very picture of serene.

Then a twig snaps in the darkness around them and a sharp inhalation sounds beside him, the sheer volume of it nearly shattering his eardrums as Geralt roars to life as he scrambles to his feet from his bedroll, cursing and swearing up a storm as he tries to throw up a Quen shield only to bite back a snarl as an arrow comes whizzing out of the woods and embeds itself in his upper arm before his magic has the chance to materialize.

Normally an arrow wouldn’t be nearly enough to fell the White Wolf, but the way Geralt’s body seizes up and he groans against his bedroll in agony hints that something is very, _very_ wrong.

The scent of blood fills Jaskier’s nose and immediately he feels the itch to shift. The longer the copper smell persists, the more his mind screams that Geralt is hurt, the harder he struggles to keep his chaos in check. A feeling of dread fills Jaskier as he instinctively reaches to his side for Cirilla and feels nothing but bedroll where the girl had been fast asleep hours before.

All at once he pushes himself to his feet. A muffled whimper causes his neck to nearly snap with how fast he turns it to face the edge of the clearing and is met by the sight of the princess being held hostage over the faint glow of the campfire still roaring. A half elf with haphazardly chopped blonde hair is holding her with a knife to her throat and a dirty hand clapped over her mouth to keep her quiet. His mind struggles to comprehend how both a dragon and a witcher were able to be ambushed as ten figures step out of the shadows cast by branches and wildlife around them, each man rough looking in the way only life on the road can do to a person.

Melitele above. How had both himself and Geralt missed the sheer _smell_ of these men? They appeared as though they hadn’t bathed in weeks and their scent was even worse. Not only that, but they managed to get Cirilla out of her bedroll between them without either of them batting an eye.

The acrid scent of lilac and gooseberries still lingered around their belongings, but that wasn’t enough to dull senses as honed as Jaskier’s. The lingering smell of powerful magic Yennefer left behind in her departure also shouldn’t have lulled them into a sense of complacency so easily.

What the fuck was going on?

“The alderman was right,” A voice sounds from somewhere near Roach at the edge of the treeline, the mare stomping her hooves and shifting around in nervousness. “Dimeritium is one hell o’ a witcher killer.”

_Fuck._

Dimeritium isn’t easily found, and how these brigands managed to get their grimy hands on it and make it into arrowheads, Jaskier hasn’t the slightest clue. By all accounts it should be near impossible to get something so pricy and sparse this far North. Especially with the people who seek out their magical dampening abilities on mages. No being who wields chaos is immune to its effects, and Jaskier knows Geralt is no different. He was practically _made_ from chaos; created to protect humanity and injected with the essence of so many monsters, the bard can’t even begin to imagine how badly it would hurt Geralt.

 _Is_ hurting him.

Panic threatens to force his body to lose control of itself as Jaskier takes in the sheer number of brigands surrounding them. With Cirilla held captive and Geralt all but incapacitated on the ground beside him, Jaskier doesn’t have the space to transform without causing injury to everyone in the vicinity. And even if he had enough room, the transformation wouldn’t be quick enough to get Cirilla away from the knife at her throat.

There were no more options.

“Ah, not just any witcher! This, my lads, is the famous _Gwynbleidd!_ ” The archer who shot Geralt grins as he comes out from the thicket to their left, his faint elvish features making his sneer all the more disturbing. The large, jagged scar that tugs on his lips from where it spans from his collarbone up and over his neck and jaw is deep; definitely made by a weapon that had nearly taken his life with how uneven the skin healed. But that isn’t his focus right now. What’s worse is the amount of arrows in the quiver slung over his back, another one already notched in his bow and aimed at Geralt. 

One dimeritium arrow lodged into his witcher is enough. Two would be catastrophic.

“Forgive us, _vatt’ghern,_ but we have no business with you or your bard.”

“We just want yer coin!” Another halfling from the right of their bedrolls speaks out, body nearly hidden by the darkness. The glint of his broadsword as he steps closer to the fire gives away his position. “An’ maybe this little lass right here. Looks about the right age to fetch a pretty penny.”

Jaskier’s stomach rolls at the implication.

“We don’t need ta sell ‘er. She’d do fine stickin around with us for a while.” A long haired halfling cheers from the other side of Cirilla as he steps around their scattered belongings on the ground. “She’s certainly pretty enough to last a while.”

“Don’t touch her. We have no coin, only food. take whatever you want, just leave her alone.” Geralt gasps like every word pains him. He clutches his upper arm where the end of the arrow sticks out of his flesh, clenching his jaw against a pained keen as another wave of agony from the dimeritium arrowhead courses through his body, a cold sweat giving his already nearly translucent skin a sickly sheen. Blood steadily seeps through the gaps of his fingers and pools in a crimson puddle on the cloth below him.

The arrow must have struck an artery.

“We don’t want yer food, ya fuckin’ mutant,” The only dwarf in the lot brandishing a bat with nails hammered into it spits as he comes closer, his long red beard unkempt with bits of leaves and twigs sticking out of it. The fire that separates them makes the dwarf’s facial hair appear to be dancing with the flames. “We know ya have coin. The town we came from said they paid you a fat sum fer killing a werewolf a week or so back.”

“You’d be wise to just give up the gold.” Another half elf speaks up from where he leans against the trunk of a tree and tosses his dagger from hand to hand disinterestedly. 

“Aye,” The red bearded dwarf agrees, “If ya don’t got the gold, the money we’ll make selling ya and the girl will make up fer it. Tell me, bard, does dressing like a pompous dandy do ya any favors?”

Whatever witcher the townsfolk had paid for a contract on a werewolf, it was not this one. How anyone could mistake Geralt for some other run of the mill witcher was beyond him, but he wasn’t about to let these bandits get away with robbing and hurting them.

Especially not with what they were muttering to each other in Elder, clearly thinking the ancient language gave them an advantage as they plotted how to get the most coin out of selling them to slave drivers. Their plans for himself and Cirilla were deplorable, their intentions regarding Geralt none too pleasant either.

Jaskier isn’t surprised when the half elves begin to speak in Elder. It is the ancient language of the elves, one in which they hold dear. So no, it isn’t far fetched to hear it being spoken.

It is a mistake on their part to think a bard wouldn’t be able to understand them.

It was insulting, even, to not know how decorated of a scholar the White Wolf’s bard is. Oxenfurt was one thing, but actually _living_ through what was taught in classrooms made him one of their top students.

Especially in the language curriculum.

The red bearded dwarf makes a move to stalk around the fire toward himself and Geralt before Jaskier makes his mind up about how to go about their rather delicate situation. 

He would rather Geralt hate him than see the witcher suffer everything these brigands were planning for him, and the mere thought of something happening to Cirilla was enough to send goosebumps prickling over his skin.

”Va vort a me vatt’ghern. N'aen te a dice'n.” _Don’t come near my witcher. I won’t say anything to you._ Jaskier hisses at the group of halflings and their dwarf leader as he steps to the side to intercept the short man’s path, not missing the shock that overtakes their faces at his flawless use of Elder Speech.

Jaskier keeps his eyes on Cirilla’s wide fear filled ones until the dwarf is standing exactly where he wants him, a minute shake of his head all he manages for her before he mouths the words, ‘close your eyes.’ 

From there, it’s a bloodbath.

The first halfling to hit the ground is the one holding Cirilla hostage. With a speed he never thought he would have to use in front of Geralt, Jaskier grabs for the dagger Geralt had gifted him from his belt and whips it at the brigand in one fluid move. His aim is true as the blade makes a home for itself in the middle of the man’s forehead with a sick _thunk_ , a gargled noise of confusion all he is able to mutter before he releases Cirilla and hits the grassy floor. 

As soon as he sees Cirilla make a break for Geralt, Jaskier lets himself go.

Chaos cloaks him like a second skin as he kicks the smouldering embers of the fire in front of himself into the red bearded dwarf, the flames licking the bandit’s clothes and scorching his vulnerable skin as he screams. Bits of ash and embers get into his eyes as he makes a futile swipe at his face to wipe them away, only managing to further blind himself as Jaskier steps into the fire and grabs the man by the throat.

The fury of the flames have nothing on Jaskier as he snaps the man’s neck in one clean move and allows his body to fall into the fire pit, his emerald trousers untouched by the one fear of every living creature as he revels in the warmth of the fire for a moment. 

Fire can’t burn a dragon.

All attention swiftly shifts from Geralt and his daughter to settle on Jaskier as the halfling gang’s leader is engulfed in flames, the jovial mood completely wiped from the bandit’s faces as weapons are aimed at him with shaky arms, the stench of fear so potent in the air that Jaskier can’t help but wrinkle his nose.

The ear splitting screams of the dwarf burning to death only add to the horrible experience.

“M'aespar que va'en, ell'ea?” _Are you going to shoot me or what?_ Jaskier taunts one of the archers as none of the several remaining bandits make a move to attack him, their eyes wide with terror and hands trembling but unwilling to back down now that they’ve picked a fight they have no chance of winning. 

It’s clear each bandit comes to that same conclusion as Jaskier takes a step forward and they all take a hasty step back.

How boring.

He never did understand how humans seem to finally understand their own morality when faced with certain death and yet have no qualms about putting themselves in such predicaments. These half elves were no different than any other unfortunate mortal that got in Jaskier’s way.

They collectively breathe for a second on borrowed time before Jaskier is on the move. 

The first halfling he goes after is the one with the dagger. He falls with one swift drag of the weapon against his jugular, the spray of blood warm when it splatters against the skin of Jaskier’s face and soaks his clothes.

From there, the next four go down much like the last. Their own weapons are turned against them before they have the chance to attack as Jaskier darts around like a harbinger of death, blue eyes with slitted pupils not missing a single move until there are only two frantic heartbeats in the clearing that don’t belong to his witcher or the lioness. 

“What, you were content with your plans for her; what about me? Caen me a'baethe?” _give me a kiss?_ Jaskier mocks as he rounds on the long haired man who dared threaten Cirilla with becoming their captive, noting with great pleasure the darkening stain soiling his crotch area as he pisses himself in fear. In fact, Jaskier nearly laughs when the man tosses aside his broadsword and falls to his knees in a groveling position, ducking his head as he begs for mercy between choked sobs.

“P-please…oh, Gods above, please...” The half elf whimpers as his only remaining gang member stares on in shock, rooted to the spot as he watches what would have been an easy robbery turn into the worst day of their lives.

Jaskier doesn’t doubt it. Underestimating your opponent was mistake number one.

Mistake number two was threatening his witcher and their charge.

“I am no God. And even if I were, I don’t listen to the pleas of monsters like you.”

That response, delivered in a voice devoid of emotion and flat in tone, sends the man into shivers so strong they’re almost full on convulsions. “W-what… what are you?” 

Jaskier releases a sigh from deep in his chest. “I’m a pompous bard, remember?” And with a flick of his wrist, Jaskier allows his chaos to flow from his fingertips and cut off the man’s airway, ignoring his strangled gasps for breath and teary eyes as he rounds on the last remaining bandit that dared threaten his hoard.

The skinny elf is easy to catch, caught off guard in his shock as Jaskier snatches him by the throat before the pureblooded elf can get a chance to make a run for it.

The red haired elf spits a strangled, “Fuck you!” as Jaskier tightens his grip on his neck until he begins to scratch at his hand to release him.

“Ire lokke, ire tedd, pherian.” _Another place, another time, halfling._ Jaskier replies in a dead tone as he tears his head clean off his shoulders with stomach rolling squelch. Arterial blood sprays his doublet in a macabre imitation of war paint as his two halves hit the ground, some spinal cord still attached to the head as it rolls for a bit before coming to a stop near Cirilla where she crouches at Geralt’s side, applying pressure to the arrow wound and tying a scrap of cloth from one of Roach’s saddle blankets around his upper arm to slow the bleeding. 

The blood still flows from Geralt’s body; the scent of it is strong in the air, and Jaskier knows he has to be the one to dig the dimeritium arrowhead out of the witcher’s arm. With the way he can hear Geralt’s strained breaths, it’s unlikely the yellow eyed man will be able to keep a steady hand while attempting to pull the arrow out.

Jaskier stands with his back to his hoard as he struggles to calm himself down. 

He knows what he looks like: pupils slitted, teeth on the wrong side of too sharp, the sickening haze of magic surrounding him as he struggles to lock away everything not human, not what Gearlt and Cirilla know him as back inside the cage in his chest.

It doesn’t work. The scent of freshly spilled blood and ash spread around the clearing are too strong to overcome. They fill his nostrils and coat the back of his tongue as hitching sobs fight their way through the haze in his mind, giving him the strength to finally wrangle his chaos back into order, though he knows his pupils will remain slitted for a while yet.

Slowly, afraid to meet the sight he knows he will find, Jaskier locks eyes with a shocked Geralt over Cirilla’s head, those yellow catlike orbs filled with so much betrayal and confusion that it makes Jaskier physically sick. 

Truth be told, Jaskier has given much thought to how Geralt would find out about his draconic heritage. He had imagined blurting it out one day while they were on the road, envisioned Geralt finally piecing the hints together and drawing the conclusion on his own, had even imagined whispering it to him after a tumble in the hay.

Of all his expected outcomes, this is the worst. 

Never did he believe Geralt capable of looking at him as he is now, nostrils flared and teeth bared as though Jaskier being there was simply a threat.

Never did he think his heart would shatter so quickly.


	2. Wind That Shakes the Trees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier knows Geralt. Witchers value honesty, and Geralt especially will be infuriated by this particular secret. There had been many times throughout their travels where Jaskier has hinted at what he is to the other man, though with how dense Geralt is, he knows none of the breadcrumbs he dropped were ever picked up.
> 
> Never examined any closer than face value.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew okay so I tried really hard on this, I hope it lives up to the expectations!

Jaskier knows Geralt. Witchers value honesty, and Geralt especially will be infuriated by this particular secret. There had been many times throughout their travels where Jaskier has hinted at what he is to the other man, though with how dense Geralt is, he knows none of the breadcrumbs he dropped were ever picked up.

Never examined any closer than face value.

 _”Jaskier!”_ Cirilla cries as she launches herself away from Geralt and crashes into his back without a spare thought to the gory mess ruining his clothes. Thin arms wrap themselves around his torso as a face full of tears is smooshed against his back, her hitching sobs echoing in his own chest as he stands there in stunned silence. “Jas, are you okay? You- you’re covered in blood!” 

Has she not seen what he’s done? There’s no way she can’t see the mutilated bodies strewn around their campsite, but Jaskier can’t take the terror in her voice.

“It’s not mine, little one.”

Cirilla pulls back just enough to frantically study his face for any signs of deceit before she quickly makes a grab for his hand and yanks him back toward the bedrolls where Geralt bristles at his approach.

Cirilla halts in her attempt to physically drag him to Geralt when she sees the witcher tense up. A contrite expression settles on her face before her eyes dart back down to the blood staining the witcher’s sleeve and pants. 

Jaskier follows her gaze and steels himself for what is possibly going to be the worst moment of his life. 

Here, with the two people he considers his treasure, Jaskier knows his world is about to come to an end. He will be cast aside as a liar, will be told to give Geralt back his one blessing and disappear from his life for good. It will be the mountain all over again, every step down its steep ledges further cementing the cracks in his heart.

If he is to leave, to give his love his one wish, then so be it.

But gods be damned if he isn’t at least going to patch Geralt up first.

“Your arm,” Jaskier croaks out between sharp canines, tongue feeling odd in the human mouth he had become so used to. Teeth that were once flat and made perfect for singing now prick his tongue as he carefully approaches the yellow eyed witcher like one would a cornered animal.

And boy, does Geralt ever look the part. 

Blood cakes his arm and trouser leg where he sits cross legged on the bedroll, covered in sweat and trembling as he tries in vain to dig out the arrow with how weak the dimeritium makes his body. Gold rimmed eyes are wide and strangely vulnerable as white hair falls out of the leather tie holding it back, giving the other man a wild edge as he keeps his attention on Jaskier’s every move.

Tracking him as though he is one of the monsters Geralt hunts.

Jaskier swears he can hear the ocean in his ears as his blood pounds, his senses focusing on nothing but Geralt as he comes to finally kneel by the witcher’s injured side, ignoring the way the larger man not so discreetly smothers a growl in the back of his throat as Jaskier nears. _Growls,_ like Jaskier is a threat.

Every piece of his heart that had been beginning to heal shatters at that low sound.

Fuck, this is already going so much worse than he feared. 

“I need to patch up your arm,” Jaskier announces in a shaky voice as his eyes lock with stunning gold in his effort to hold back his tears, unwilling to move an inch closer until he knows Geralt won’t try to kill him.

Won’t see him as a monster.

Cirilla quickly dashes to their abandoned packs and pulls out a well worn medical kit that Jaskier insisted on carrying on his person. One couldn’t be too prepared when traveling with a witcher who threw himself head first into danger every other day, after all. “There’s a needle and some thread in here, I stocked up on them in the last town,” She says in a rush as she pushes the bundle of items into Jaskier’s lap with trembling hands, the heft of the pack a balm to his shaking hands as well as his nervous heart.

Her face is ashen and her eyes are red rimmed from crying. It’s a heart wrenching sight to see on someone her age. All in all, Cirilla looks like she’s been through a lot today, and despite the terror Jaskier feels at the possibility of having to leave them, he offers her as warm a smile as he can muster. Her peace of mind is just as important as Geralt’s. “That’s wonderful, Ciri, thank you. I have some fresh bandages in here as well from a few days ago so I think that’s enough.”

It’s surprisingly easy to fall into the groove of routine, to keep up a steady stream of mindless chatter as he rests a blood soaked hand on Geralt’s shoulder, sucking in a sharp breath at the feel of the clammy skin against his warm palm. 

He waits a beat, then two, before he decides Geralt isn’t going to punch him. 

“I’m going to take this out, okay? It’s going to hurt but I know you’ve been through worse, so be a dear and brace yourself for me.” Is all the warning Jaskier gives before he rips the arrow out the same way it went in, guilt clouding his heart at the bitten off gasp Geralt gives as the arrow comes free. 

Healing with the dimeritium in his body is impossible. Any mutagen enhanced healing abilities would be blocked by the stone, so to keep Geralt from losing any more blood than he already has, it had to be done.

Jaskier flings the cursed thing as far into the woods as he can the second it's ripped free, not sparing a glance at any of the mutilated bodies littering the ground as he hears the thing hit a pile of leaves somewhere off in the distance.

“Is he going to be okay?” Cirilla frets by his side as Jaskier keeps his eyes focused on the task of patching Geralt up. It’s more muscle memory than anything else at this point as he ensures every bit of the dimeritium has been taken out before pinching the edges of the wound closed and getting to work suturing it closed, Cirilla a warm presence by his side.

Countless times he has done this. More often than not, at the end of nearly every contract, Jaskier has had to stitch Geralt up from battle after the oaf comes staggering into whatever inn they’re staying at for the night, hiding the true extent of his injuries until they’re alone in their room. Only then does Geralt allow himself to be vulnerable, showing Jaskier exactly where he’s hurt. A swipe of a cockatrice’s talons to the shoulder here, a slash from an Erynia there. The man got more banged up than anyone Jaskier has ever met before in his long, long life.

Still, the familiarity of routine doesn’t cloud his judgement so much that Jaskier can’t see the way Geralt keeps as still as possible, deliberately keeping his large body tense until his wound is held together by a row of perfect little stitches.

Jaskier firmly keeps his eyes glued to the dressed wound even as he feels Geralt’s eyes boring burning holes into his face, lips kept firmly shut. Sweat borne from nerves gathers along his hairline and down his back even as a cool breeze all but freezes it against his skin.

It’s Cirilla who breaks the stalemate they find themselves in. “Jaskier, what was that?” She demands, sounding short of breath as she takes in his slit pupils and sharp canines. 

Jaskier can’t believe she’s most likely about to piece together the hints Geralt had let fly right over his head for twenty years. 

Truly, how could his witcher be so dense that someone a mere fraction of his age could piece together something never intended to be hidden?

“What was what?” Jaskier counters weakly.

Her curious expression quickly changes to one of disbelief. Cirilla flaps her hands around the area of their campsite as though that speaks enough, and to her credit, it does. 

“Geralt told me what happened with the Nilfgaardian army a few weeks ago,” Cirilla begins as her gaze darts back and forth between her two guardians, piercing emerald eyes pinning both men in place as she connects the dots. “How I was to find you if he didn’t make it; how _close_ you were to us. He told me the dragon that saved him was covered in red scales and had piercing blue eyes. Said it didn’t hurt him, but ran away when he tried to thank it.”

Jaskier very pointedly doesn’t say a word. 

Beside him, he can hear the way Geralt sucks in a subtle breath as though in surprise as he catches on. The sickly pale sheen to his skin slowly disappears as mutagens work hard to heal whatever damage has been done by the dimeritium, which is a relief in itself as he visibly gains his strength back in a fraction of the time it would take a lesser man.

Geralt is silent.

Cirilla’s young face softens into an expression of awe as she pins her gaze on Jaskier, who can’t detect a single note of fear in her scent even with the bloody sight he must make. “Grandmother told me they didn’t exist, that they were nothing but a fairytale told at bedtime.”

For how obvious he had been, right then, Jaskier desperately wishes Geralt would have come to the conclusion long ago if only to spare them the situation they’re currently in.

“You’re not cursed; you’re a _dragon._ ”

Time seems to stand still as Cirilla utters the words Jaskier has long since waited to hear, though certainly not in this context. 

Dragons feel years go by as a human would experience hours slipping by while in deep sleep. That is to say, he doesn’t feel them at all. With how long he has walked this Continent, and the one before the Conjunction, twenty years is a mere drop in the ocean.

Yet the years he has known Geralt are the ones where he has experienced the most emotion. Pain, love, terror, joy. Never in his long life had simply _living_ been such an experience, and despite feeling the blade of the proverbial guillotine about to drop and take away the one thing he would give his life for, Jaskier keeps his head up.

No matter what happens, he is a dragon, and dragons are fire made flesh, pride so thoroughly embedded in their scales that it courses through his veins with every pump of his heart.

Geralt can say what he wants; believe what he wants. There is no stopping him with how pigheaded the man can be.

It’s nice to have Cirilla on his side though. 

“Geralt,” Cirilla suddenly demands in a tone that brooks no arguments as she turns on her guardian, “Why didn’t you tell me Jaskier is the one who saved you?”

Here, in a campsite surrounded by brutally felled halfling bandits and in the presence of a witcher of legend and a dragon of ancient lore, Cirilla has never resembled her grandmother Calanthe more than in this moment.

She is every bit the Lioness of Cintra right now as she rounds on Geralt, deeply upset with him for keeping her in the dark about something so important.

Jaskier doesn’t miss how she doesn’t give him the same treatment, doesn’t demand to know why he wasn’t the one to tell her about his own secret. 

Geralt looks almost gutted as his Child Surprise turns on him, but he is quick to school his expression into something more controlled. His low, gravely voice spits out an “I didn’t know.” And suddenly Jaskier feels nausea cramping his stomach.

He knows all too well what is to come next. 

“Jaskier.”

Geralt’s voice is rocks being dragged over sandpaper, stern and strong and yet so very vulnerable.

It’s every bit the voice of the man he loves. 

The man he loves who looks _pissed,_ among other things. “We need to talk.”

And well, isn’t that something? Never has Jaskier heard Geralt willingly beseech him for conversation like this before, imploring him to spill his guts.

There was no getting out of this.

So, with a soft look to Cirilla, Jaskier slowly pushes himself to his feet and cups his hand over that young cheek, swiping his thumb tenderly under her eye to wipe away the remnants of tears. “Geralt and I have to have a discussion, little one,” He begins, deliberately not meeting Geralt’s gaze as he relishes the warmth of Cirilla’s cheek on his palm for what might be the last time. “Please go make sure Roach is okay. She’s the bravest finger biter in all of the Continent; it would be a right tragedy if she is alone right now after what she’s just been through.”

His message is clear: he and Geralt need to talk alone.

Cirilla seems to get what he’s implying even as she leans into his caress. “You’re still coming to Kaer Morhen with us, right?”

And oh, how his heart aches.

All he can offer is a wobbly smile. “I surely hope so.” It’s all he can say as he drops his hand and slowly turns to meet the unreadable gaze of the White Wolf, who gestures to the forest around them as Cirilla unwillingly ventures to Roach’s side.

Jaskier says nothing as he lets Geralt lead the way. 

They walk in a single file line into the forest, Geralt blazing a path through the foliage with Jaskier following silently behind until they can barely see Cirilla where she is standing beside Roach. Both can surely still hear their inevitable discussion, but with the surprise ambush still pumping adrenaline in their blood, neither of them are keen on leaving the mare and child out of their sight. 

The lush greenery surrounding them on all sides would be peaceful, gorgeous even, had the tense air between them not soured the sight. Not even the little wildflowers under foot got Jaskier to smile as he marched toward what felt like his inevitable death.

If he is to die today, at least he can let go at the hands of his beloved, he supposes.

Actually, what would it feel like to die? Would he just close his eyes and cease to exist or would it feel slow and painful like the slow shattering of his heart whenever he saw Yennefer and Geralt together?

Jaskier is quickly forced to focus back on his surroundings when he nearly crashes into Geralt’s broad back as he stops and stands completely still in a small clearing covered in dandelions. 

What a lovely resting place for his corpse.

“You lied to me.” Geralt begins in a tone that’s no more than a growl as he turns and faces Jaskier.

Every instinct in Jaskier is telling him to run, that this situation isn’t salvageable because Geralt looks so stricken, so _vulnerable_ in a way the blue eyed man has never seen before. The words he speaks hold a weight to them that chokes the breath from Jaskier’s lungs.

“I didn’t lie.” Jaskier is quick to deny in a raspy wheeze, the accusation Geralt is so quick to throw at him bringing back memories of the mountain where their lives were changed forever because of a few misplaced words shouted in anger. “I do not lie. You assumed I was human and never asked.”

Geralt grits his teeth in response, not taking that explanation, though Jaskier hadn’t really expected him to. “That’s still lying. You never told me.”

The dandelions under Geralt’s leather boots get ground into the dirt as he shifts his weight to reflect his mood. Never has Jaskier felt kinship with a weed, but there is a first time for everything, he supposes.

“That’s not true,” Jasakier denies, “I gave you so many hints over the years that I’m not human. You just never picked up on them.”

That seems to further Geralt’s confusion fueled rage. “Hints are _not_ the same thing as willfully hiding something this big from me.”

“What would you have me do then, hmm?” Jaskier can feel himself growing slightly hysterical and is powerless to stop it. “Would you prefer I waited until you came back from seeing Yennefer, pissed off and hurt, to sit you down and explain I’m not human? Would you even care to still keep me around?”

“Don’t bring Yen into this-”

“Oh, sod off, Geralt. You-”

Geralt snaps his teeth at Jaskier before he can finish his sentence in a move more canine than man, the sound his strong jaw makes as his teeth clack together ringing in the sudden silence around them. “ _Stop_ ” Geralt bites out.

The various sounds of nature around them should feel soothing, should be a balm on their open wounds as their words run out and they stare each other down.

The silence only serves to make said wounds bleed faster.

“Why did you not tell me?” Geralt finally pleads in a raspy whisper, his shoulders squared and otherworldly golden eyes flashing with what Jaskier is stunned to realize is _hurt._

Oh no. Of all things to find an issue with, Geralt does _not_ get to be upset about this. Has no right to, in fact, given their entire history together. 

“Don’t you _dare,”_ Jaskier spits as he gets right up in Geralt’s face, feline eyes nearly glowing in rage as the sheer effort it takes to hold himself back makes his body tremble, “After everything we’ve been through, after the way you've treated me these past twenty years, what makes you think you’re _entitled_ to my secrets?”

Fury twists Geralt’s pale, chiseled face as he draws himself to his full height and gets right back in Jaskier’s space. It’s a poor intimidation technique Jaskier has seen the witcher use on rowdy humans and would be thieves, but no part of the show Geralt is putting on frightens him even the slightest bit.

Jaskier hasn’t been scared of the witcher a day in his life and he isn’t about to start now.

“It would have made it a hell of a lot easier protecting you if I knew you aren’t a mortal.” Geralt snarls.

The way Jaskier’s lip curls up over his teeth in a snarl is nothing short of dangerous. _”Protect me?”_ He parrots in shock, nearly forgetting himself as a whole new wave of red hot fury washes over his limbs and ignites fire in its wake. “The only thing you’ve protected me from is living a boring life devoid of heartbreak, witcher. Do not think for a second that I needed your help.”

“Like _fuck_ you didn’t need my help!” Geralt roars as he comes chest to chest with Jaskier, their noses nearly touching as they spit vitriol at one another. Jaskier can see the pale tendons standing out in Geralt’s neck as he yells, little more than a cornered animal as he tries to understand why he had been kept in the dark for their entire friendship. “You were always following my every move, trailing after me like a lost pup as you begged me to guard you from vengeful cuckolds!”

 _“You_ are the one who needed my help.” Jaskier hisses in a low tone, able to count Geralt’s pale lashes with how close they’re standing, each man coiled up tight and ready to let loose the second the other makes a move. “Do you know how many times after hunts you hadn’t actually killed the monster? How many assassins I killed while you slept and recovered, how many times I was hurt protecting you when your guard was down even though you hadn’t spared a single thought toward how I was faring?”

There is a good chance they might come to blows if this goes on any further. Violence and the scent of death follow the white haired man around wherever he goes, yet underneath all the pain and bloodshed is always a soft hint of horse and leather that calls to Jaskier’s heart.

Being this close to Geralt, Jaskier can pick up on the subtle scents and can’t help the low keen in his throat and the sting of tears in his eyes as his body screams at him to hold Geralt, to pamper and care for and _love him_ despite the rage still bubbling under his skin.

It’s a heavy feeling.

For a second, Jaskier simply stares at the witcher as the golden eyed man pauses as well, great big chest heaving in the aftershocks of their screaming match, confusion and concern slowly replacing the fury twisting his face. 

What is he doing? How had it come to this? A dragon and a witcher screaming at one another in the middle of a forest after just having been jumped by a band of half elves. There’s a song somewhere in there, but Jaskier is too drained to delve into the idea. “I didn’t tell you.” Jaskier whispers in acknowledgement, confident Geralt will hear him with his enhanced senses.

That thick throat bobs as Geralt swallows. “Why.” It’s not phrased as a question; it’s phrased as a demand, like the witcher simply won’t live another minute if he doesn’t know why he was left out of such a huge secret for such a long time.

Jaskier closes his eyes to protect himself against the reaction he knows is coming.

“I couldn’t trust you.”

Geralt falls a step back as though he’s been physically struck. Any color that flushed under his skin from their screaming suddenly vanishes, leaving the witcher appearing more sickly and pale than he normally does. He looks like he’s been slapped. “What did I do to make you believe you couldn’t trust me? If it’s about what happened on the mountain, I’ve already apologized for that.” Geralt demands, voice barely above a whisper as it breaks at the end of his sentence. The sound is so heartbreaking, so _raw_ in his grief that Jaskier finally lets the tears he’s been building up flow, cascading down the blood caked on his face in streams of filth. 

“Are you really asking me that?” Jaskier sniffles, resisting the urge to wipe the mess on his face on his sleeve.

“Do I look like I’m joking?” Geralt’s voice is rising again, a combination of his hurt and anger mixing into a tumultuous cocktail of emotions.

Emotions he always claimed not to have. What a load of shit.

“I didn’t trust you because time and time again, you took what I offered and stepped on it. I gave you advice that you ignored, I offered you my heart and you spat on it. Even now, when I’ve confessed to you what I am-- a privilege very few have, by the way-- you treat me as something to scream at. And even if you didn’t, I’ve only ever faced hardships when my heritage is found out. How was I to know you wouldn’t just scream at me to force me away if you knew?”

That at least gets the witcher to quiet down. Large shaking fists slowly unfurl themselves to lay by Geralt’s side limply, all the fight seeming to leave him at Jaskier’s words. “I don’t-”

“You _do._ You’re doing it _right now._ ”

Geralt’s jaw clenches as he grinds his teeth together, the very picture of pissed off and upset as he runs a rough hand back through his hair, the few clumps of hair that have fallen out of his hair tie coming to rest in front of his face. “I’m not! I just don’t _understand!”_

And they’re back to yelling.

“How much clearer can I make it for you?!” Jaskier finally gives into the urge to snarl, his once melodic voice coming out harsh and gravely as fire licks the inside of his throat, turning his self preservation and control over himself to ash. “What would you like me to do, witcher? Hit you over that dense rock you call your skull until you actually learn to _listen_ to what I’m saying?!”

“I can hear you just fine; in fact, the whole _Continent_ can hear you shrieking!”

Dragons do not do well with being insulted. Jaskier does not handle it well either, dragon heritage or not, and right then, he wants nothing more than to walk away and leave Geralt to work out his repressed emotions by himself.

But he can’t.

This is the most they’ve ever divulged to each other; the most either of them have said at one time, and though he despises every word being spoken with every fiber of his being, it’s progress.

He just wishes progress didn’t feel like a knife in the back.

“I am not _shrieking!_ ” 

“You _are!_ You’re always making noise, always spouting bullshit that I can’t get out of my head, and don’t get me started on those _fucking songs-_ ”

 _”ENOUGH!”_

The sheer power in Jaskier’s voice causes the earth to tremble beneath their feet, the branches of trees around them shaking as wildlife flee the unearthly roar that just came out of the bard. Tendrils of smoke curl into the air around him as the dandelions surrounding them begin to wither and die, the heat he’s expelling too much for them to handle. 

Jaskier’s self control is slipping. He is more draconic than human now, pupils slit like a cat’s and glowing ever brighter, his canines sharper than Geralt’s, his entire body radiating pure chaos as it struggles to keep a human form.

He knows this, knows Geralt can see him like this, and the faint trace of fear he catches from his witcher is what finally makes him break. 

“Enough…” Jaskier weeps, his plea a mere whisper in the wind now as he struggles to pull breath into his lungs between each sob. Each breath he manages to force into his body is expelled quickly, the wheezing sound his throat makes add a sorrowful keen to the stillness around him. “I can’t do this anymore…”

Geralt is still as stone as he watches Jaskier’s chest heave with every cry, brows pinched in pain as he watches his friend of twenty years break down like he’s never seen before.

It’s almost as though the threat of Jaskier not leaving with them, not staying by their side, is enough to force Geralt out of the attack dog reflex he wore like a second skin in situations he is not in control of.

 _“I loved you!”_ Jaskier screams, unable to silence the sobs ripping through his throat as he stumbles back from the witcher, clutching his chest in a feeble attempt to make the pain go away. The three feet he manages to put between them feels like an entire chasm has opened on the forest floor. “I loved you the moment our eyes met in Posada, you stupid, _stupid_ witcher.”

Geralt stands stock still, not a single muscle moving as he stares at Jaskier with wide eyes and a gaping mouth. 

“You… what?” Geralt breathes, awe coloring his tone even as Jaskier all but crumbles in front of him. 

“I knew my heart was setting itself up to be broken. Mortals are one thing-- they live and die in the blink of an eye, but you… you were something different, something _beautiful,_ inside and out.” Jaskier babbles as secrets held close for decades come spilling from his lips, the torrent of words lessening the weight on his shoulders bit by bit until he feels simultaneously light as a feather and like someone has strapped him to a bouder and dumped him in a lake. “Every time you insulted me, every time you threw me aside for someone who doesn’t love you, every time you ignored my pleading for you to just _listen_ to me for once, you ignored me and it hurt _so much_.”

A gentle breeze rolls through the forest and ruffles their clothing, Geralt’s shoulder length white hair waving gently while the man himself stays stunned silent. 

“I didn’t tell you because it wouldn’t make a difference. Maybe you would think me a monster, or maybe you would treat me as you always have, though you would not be the first to turn on me after finding out.”

Geralt isn’t saying anything, isn’t responding to the word vomit Jaskier couldn’t stop if he tried, and the silence grates on him until the urge to fill it becomes unbearable. 

If he’s going to lose Geralt over this, he might as well throw all his cards on the table rather than live the rest of his life wishing he had spoken his mind. 

He has enough regrets.

“I am not Yennefer of Vengerburg. I refuse to debase you, to make you feel like less than what you are. I will not force you to return my feelings, for I have long since known they are unrequited and I have made my peace with it. But if you can’t accept me for who I am, then I will leave.”

Geralt appears as though he simultaneously wants to cry and wrap Jaskier in a hug, but that’s preposterous.

The White Wolf doesn’t initiate contact outside of the presence of Yennefer.

Strained silence stifles the air between them before it becomes clear Geralt won’t speak. Jaskier quickly squeezes his eyes shut against the fresh torrent of tears trying to break free and carve their way down his cheeks. 

So this is how it’s going to be.

Well, at least Jaskier said everything he wanted to.

“Jaskier, it’s not what you think-”

“I do not wish to hear it, Geralt.” Jaskier quickly cuts him off before any more damage can be done.

“You were the one to demand I speak, so _let me speak._ ” Geralt’s voice is hoarse and cracking. The picture he paints is the very definition of desperate. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”

Jaskier, as much as he wanted to turn tail and book it as far away from this man as possible with the tattered remains of his heart, bows his head in defeat.

Whatever was about to come, Geralt at least deserved to be heard. 

“I didn’t know,” Geralt began, visibly deflating. Seeing anger wash away in one breath in someone so large was a unique experience, but Jaskier didn’t linger on the thought. “You have to believe me when I say I truly didn’t know.”

It’s the closest to begging Jaskier has ever heard from the other man. 

Geralt swallows with difficulty before slowly closing the space between them one soft step at a time. Those golden eyes Jaskier has seen flash in fury, soften in contentment, and roll in exasperation now appear more frantic and restless than ever before. And in what feels like a blink of an eye, Geralt stands before him until they’re practically breathing each other’s air.

It always flummoxed Jaskier how someone so large in stature and presence could move so silently. 

“I…” Words fail Geralt as he fights to string together what he wants to say, and Jaskier is too entranced with the proximity of their lips to protest. “I didn’t think you were someone I could have.”

Wait.

What?

“Huh?” Jaskier takes a quick step back in order to look Geralt in the eye rather than stare at his lips. 

A guilty look plasters itself across Geralt’s face, though his eyes crinkle at the corners in what looks to be…

Relief? 

“I thought you were _human,_ Jask,” Geralt continues as his voice gradually softens until it’s almost a low croon, “I can’t- I’ve been with humans before, loved them, but their lives are so much shorter, so much more _difficult_ to live with once they’re gone.” The tone of his voice suggests many tales of heartbreak.

All at once, Jaskier understands.

Or at least he thinks he does.

“So let me get this straight,” Jaskier holds his arms out to his sides in furious exasperation, “You thought I would only live until about seventy years old, so you were fine with letting me live my life heartbroken without even _trying_ to hear what I have to say about it?”

Golden eyes blink slowly at him in confusion. “I wouldn’t age. I would still look the way I do now while your body aged and withered.” 

“I’m not human.”

“I know that _now,_ ” Geralt stresses, “But I didn't know when I met Yennefer. She… helped distract me from you. Helped me try to get over my affection for you because I knew you would live and die in the blink of an eye and I couldn’t go through that again.”

Jaskier’s mouth opens and closes without his consent as he stares in complete befuddlement at the man in front of him. “So, you had _affections_ for me and instead of being a man and oh, I don’t know, _telling me_ about it and facing your feelings, you chose to hurt yourself time after time with a sorceress who doesn't care for you as I watched?”

That about sums it up if the stricken look Geralt is wearing is any indication.

If it were possible, Jaskier can feel himself becoming even _more_ upset than he had been before. 

What a flawed fucking thought process. Who the _fuck_ raised Geralt to think like this? If it was Vesemir, Jaskier is going to have more than a few words with the eldest witcher about him instilling such a lack of self preservation in his pupils. To do this to himself and others…

It was beyond stupid.

“I have met many stupid men in my lifetime, Geralt,” Jaskier begins, “But you are now the reigning champion of all stupid arseholes in existence in a race you hadn’t even known you were competing in.”

“Jaskier-” Gerat reaches out a hand to try and- hold him? Pat his shoulder? Jaskier doesn’t know, but he’s not keen to find out at the moment.

“No, Geralt.” All his rage leaves him in a rush and all he can feel is an exhaustion deep in his bones. “I need time to think. The way you’ve treated me these past years is a complete contrast to what you’re saying. You don’t treat someone you have feelings for the way you treated me.”

Geralt is silent for all of about four seconds before his eyes fall to the floor. “I’m sorry.”

It hurts to hear Geralt apologize to him. It hurts to know they could have had something _good_ so long ago had one of them opened up about their feelings. 

Before Yennefer.

Before the Djinn.

Before that godsforsaken mountain.

But what’s done is done.

“I don’t think you truly are.” Jaskier is being harsh and he knows it, but Geralt needs to understand where he’s coming from if there’s any hope of salvaging their friendship. “You’re saying you were willingly going to let me die broken-hearted as a human just to keep yourself from having to feel something. I always knew you to be a courageous, brave man, but your actions radiate a cowardness I never expected from you.”

And with that, Jaskier turns to leave the clearing. If this is how Geralt wants it to be, he can forget either of them ever confessed and go off on his own once more, rebuild his life and start anew.

He has more self respect than to debase himself by staying with a man who admits to loving him yet chooses to fuck someone else. 

“Please,” Geralt’s watery plea halts him in his tracks as soon as he reaches the treeline, intending to go back to Cirilla to say goodbye. “Please don’t go. Let me- I can make this right.”

The small flicker of hope in Jaskier’s chest is weak and brittle, a flame that had been extinguished too many times to truly catch fire. He keeps his back to Geralt for a few seconds before throwing a blank look over his shoulder at the man. “I have yet to see how, but you continue to surprise me.”

Jaskeir keeps his spine straight and head held high as he leaves Geralt in the clearing. The witcher will follow, he knows, but the time he needs to pull himself together is best done alone. 

Cirilla doesn't deserve to see the effect his conversation with Geralt has on him.

She doesn’t seem to give a single thought to his appearance when he picks his way back to their campsite to findher petting Roach’s snout in a nervous tick, quick to leave the mare’s side as soon as he comes into view. She takes one look at his expression and already Jaskier can feel his heart constrict in his chest. At least she waits until Geralt has stepped out of the foliage as well before she speaks.

“You’re not coming with us?” Cirilla’s voice wobbles as she clearly bites back tears, her body shaking with the effort of holding herself back from running at Jaskier and refusing to let go. “No, you can’t just- can’t just _leave_ us!” She turns to Geralt accusingly. “Geralt, say something to him!”

Geralt says nothing, though the pleading gaze Jaskier feels on his back burns like a brand. 

It’s obvious what the witcher wants. Geralt wants him to continue to travel with them, carry on the facade of normalcy for Cirilla’s sake and for Geralt’s peace of mind. And, despite everything, Jaskier finds himself unwilling to part from their sides as well given recent revelations.

But there is a larger issue that has to be dealt with.

“I have to stay behind, little one.” Jaskier shushes her as he strides over on long legs and bundles her into his arms, uncaring that she’s spreading snot and tears all over his already ruined chemise. He’s so stricken with the sight of her crying that he doesn’t even bother trying to sidestep the reprimanding nip Roach gives his upper arm. “We can’t have anyone following you to Kaer Morhen. It’s the best we can do.”

Tiny hands grip the fabric of his chemise and hold on tightly. “You already took care of the bandits,” she tries.

“There could be more.”

“But there isn’t.”

Jaskier heaves a sad sigh as he tips his head back to stare at the canopy above. “There probably is. I caught scents similar to theirs while I was talking to Geralt. They’re far away, but they’re in the direction we would have to go in in order to reach the Keep.”

The look Geralt gives her is both sad and pleading, as though agreeing to part with Jaskier is tearing at his soul. More than anyone, the witcher knows how important it is to not leave any stone unturned, and Jaskier knows himself better than anyone. There is absolutely no way he can allow them to waltz straight into danger while he can’t transform.

If the bandits cornered them while they’re traveling together, Jaskier wouldn’t have the space to shift. His form would crush everyone, his hoard included.

Geralt seems to come to the same conclusion, though Jaskier doubts it is identical to his own. “It’s our only option. I’m still too weak from the dimeritium to fight; it’s the lesser evil.” 

Geralt is right; it _is_ the lesser evil, having him stay behind to eliminate the bandits who were more than likely going to follow Geralt and Cirilla.

It would give him time to think, to sort out the jumbled mess his mind is in. it’s what they all need.

Yet watching Geralt place Cirilla on Roach despite her protests with all the care and gentleness he can muster in those large hands settles something in his chest that had been knocked askew so long ago.

That flickering glimmer of hope is burning again, and this time, Jaskier decides to actively fan the flames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for taking the time to read this! Your continued support is greatly appreciated :)

**Author's Note:**

> I read every single comment and gush about them on break at work. Thank you all for keeping up with this series and I hope you all have a sparkling week :)
> 
> UPDATE: now with reader fanart!!!
> 
> https://mistical52.tumblr.com/post/620355659501813760/here-we-have-jaskier-from-buttcatchers


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